


unsteady

by staticpetrichor



Series: geraskier snippets [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Disassociation, Gen, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, fuck im so soft for them, geralt is soft and repressed but he responds to the best of his abilities, its gay come on, jaskier has anxiety, preslash but like, this is kinda garbagey but its also a self indulgent fucker so im ok w it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25816525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staticpetrichor/pseuds/staticpetrichor
Summary: jaskier copes. geralt finds out.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: geraskier snippets [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672132
Comments: 8
Kudos: 271





	unsteady

**Author's Note:**

> helloooooo u !! u reading this !!! go get some water okay !! maybe a snack too ?! u need to stay hydrated and healthy !!! i love you !!

He is panicking. 

He knows he is panicking. Can feel the truth of it echo along with each increasing _thump_ of his heart, tastes it in the back of his throat as his lungs speed up, slow down, impossibly fast and shallow. Jaskier is panicking and the worst part is, he is not alone. The knowledge prompts his fingers to scrape uselessly across the bare bit of chest visible in the worn neck of his undershirt. An effort in _something,_ some attempt of control, of forcing his throat to relax, of letting air _in._

A faint sting, the edge of a bitten nail grown sharp.

Jaskier hates himself for it.

Really, he does.

But the pain is delicious.

Soothing.

_Fleeting._

Ruthless with desperation, Jaskier scrabbles at his skin. Dragging, pinching, digging. Anything to shove back the nausea, the anticipation, the fucking _nothingness_ of it all. 

He is so very ashamed and yet euphoria blossoms like droplets of bliss in the wake of each harm he deals himself. Sinful, yes. And more importantly just plain stupid. Dangerous, especially out here where _he_ could see, could find the remnants Jaskier’s coping leaves behind. But none of it matters, doesn’t prompt his hands to slow. He is stuck. If he stops the waves of panic will no longer be held at bay. If he does not Geralt is sure to come back before he has hidden the evidence.

He cannot win either way.

And it is so much easier to embrace the dull hurt, let it rinse away any other thoughts. 

“Jaskier.” 

There is a cold kind of shock to the word, to the witcher’s tone. It douses any lingering joy, leaves nothing but the resilient flame of anxiety behind. He’s fucked now and the worst part is a tiny piece of him can’t help but sigh in relief. It will be so much easier to be alone once more, to not have to bother picking up every damn piece just because someone else might notice. And he _knows_ that isn’t what he wants.

Not really. 

He just wants it all to quiet for a damn second. 

Jaskier barely notices how close the other man has come, head dipped so that grey must meet gold, not until it is far too late to avoid his next words.

“Don’t do that.” But it isn’t angry nor demanding. Simply shocked. Almost pleading and somehow that is so much worse. How could he have thought anger would wreck him when the sorrow is that much more cutting? Jaskier doesn’t want to do this, hates that he can’t stop, that the very _thought_ of quitting makes his chest heave and head snarl. Even now, in the face of the witcher’s shock and soon to be wrath, it takes everything in him to even slow his movements. 

“Can I…?” Geralt lets his voice trail off, meaning clear in his cautiously extended hand. Aiming directly for the bard’s as it continued to fumble at his flesh.

Jaskier doesn’t respond. 

Doesn't want to sully them by letting this part of himself leak through. 

Doesn't want to feel another person's disgust. 

Wants to feel someone else's warmth.

Wants that a little bit too much. 

Wants to lean into another person’s touch, wants to make believe that none of this happened, wants to sweep it under the rug, wants to cry out this fucking _poison._

“Can I touch you?” Geralt reiterates, as though the question went unanswered because it was misunderstood. As though the question wasn’t sending Jaskier into an existential hell. But he waits, hand still outstretched, face a deceptive mask of calm.

He knows it to be deception because the witcher’s eyes can't lie nearly as well as the rest of him. And those fucking eyes shatter any bit of resolve the bard could ever hope to hang onto. They blink and insurmountable sadness flickers in them, _guilt_. 

And Jaskier, _damn him straight to hell,_ he nods. 

Geralt’s fingers loop gently around his wrist, pulling it away from his now bloodied chest and trapping it in a warm embrace.

It feels better than anything has a right to.

_Touch._

"Can I help? Clean this up?" 

There's blood under his fingernails. Smeared along the other man's palm. He can feel it now, dripping down the front of his shit, welling up along each angry red ridge.

He hates this.

Hates the concern in the witcher's voice, the worry. Hates that he's let all of this go on for so long. 

But even hate fades in the presence of nothing.

The emptiness swells inside Jaskier, fills him up and leaves him hollow, fake. He nods mutely at Geralt, stepping forward into arms and an offer, neither of which he deserves.   
  


**⁂**

It takes longer than it should, to clean and bandage the scratches. To tug a fresh shirt over his head. But Jaskier hardly notices. His limbs have turned to stone, ears ringing dully. He can tell how careful the witcher is being and it stings like seasalt in an open wound that he can’t really _feel_ it. How ironic that only now is his wish fulfilled, a twist of fate cruel enough to leave a hole in a man’s heart.

But the quiet strength and surety that Geralt radiated was something even the nothingness was powerless against. It seemed to poke through, bits of sunlight highlighting a morose sky. When he is finally finished, when he moves to pull away and let Jaskier go, the bard can’t help but wince. He has been starving for so long and he knows it will kill him to return to that desolation. 

Understanding flashes in Geralt’s eyes. 

He isn’t quite certain how it happens but somehow Jaskier’s back is flush with Geralt’s chest as they sit against a downed tree.

The witcher's chest is rumbling, “Is this okay, then?”

His answering nod is too hasty, too revealing, but Geralt simply settles back in agreement. They are silent for a very long time. Long enough for the sun to dip down below the tree-line, for a bit of chill to creep through the forest. Jaskier isn’t sure if it only just started or if he’s only just now able to feel it, but Geralt’s fingers drum lightly against the top of his knee, a soft reverberation that makes his soul settle into his bones. Makes this all feel real, makes the marks on his chest ache, just a little. 

And it is insanity to think that Jaskier had ever doubted his own existence, could ever feel as though he wasn’t real. It is unbelievable. Until it happens again. 

He is so tired. Geralt is so warm. 

There will be questions in the morning. Horrible questions with horrible answers.

But for now Geralt is humming softly under his breath. 

And Jaskier has never felt this warm.

This content.

This _real._


End file.
